


Reunion in Seasons

by silasfinch



Series: Seasons [1]
Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: Artists, F/F, Gen, Héloïse POV, Love Confessions, Music, Mythology References, Post-Canon, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:20:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23870725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silasfinch/pseuds/silasfinch
Summary: A decade in the future Héloïse settles into an unusual and unexpected life with her son.She commissions Marianne for an equally unusual portrait for her family.A secret courtship begins and they rekindle a hidden love story
Relationships: Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Series: Seasons [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1727440
Comments: 11
Kudos: 93





	Reunion in Seasons

**Author's Note:**

> I am dyslexic please forgive any grammar oversights -I did my best.  
> The movie broke me with its profound beauty and I felt compelled to write a tribute.  
> I am history geek and know a tiny bit about about this period. Wealthy children were often dressed similarly so its hard to distinguish sons and daughters. Héloïse's child is a son in this work.  
> My high school French wasn't up to the challenge of any dialogue so language is implied.  
> My great uncle experienced the illness described in this

I am a better caretaker than a wife. 

Despite my fears and resistance towards mother's scheming, our marriage wasn't a horrible experience. Of course, I came to the union with such little experience and expectations. The nightmares from the Abby recede into the shadows after a view years. The physical act of wifely duty is painful and uncomfortable, but my husband did not place many demands on my temperament or time. There were more moments of consolation than I was expecting, especially after our son is born, and there is less martial pressure. There are much gossip and speculation about my strange French ways, but the insults are meaningless. I did not love my husband, nor were there reasons for me to loathe his existence, as some wives to their husbands. Marianne was right Milian is the city of music, and my life develops a new rhythm away from the sea and the rocks. 

I become a widow in all but name a decade into the marriage. Stefano was away on business (one of many. trips) when he developed a high fever somewhere between Genoa and Milan. His wealth ensures the best possible care, but while his body recovers his soul and mind never return. The man that returns to me bears little resembles the influential, imposing figure that became entranced with the portrait. My life develops once again shifts into a new rhythm of caring for him and running the household staff. 

Stefano is a prosperous man and earns enough in the first years of our marriage to supply the house during his convalescence. The housekeeper and maids lurk in the shadows and whisper about the tragedy, but nobody leaves because we are good employers in these uncertain times. Sophie is my loyal and steadfast companion and carries all my secrets as I carry hers. There are rumours that the local baker will ask for her hand, but she does not confirm this to me or anyone else. If she possesses any sense, she will not hold on to her great love as I have done with mine. 

"Marianne is in the city and painting the Lucci daughters." 

It is only the years of training and discipline that prevents me from dropping the teacup at the mention of the other woman. We only speak French when they are alone. Sophie looks like she is about to faint and her hands tremble as she grips her dress tightly. She proceeds to tell me the circumstances, but all I can focus on is the single point that Mariane is here after so many years. 

"The price of that commission must be high, given how strongly the twins resemble their father in the worst ways," I say without genuine malice. 

Sophie flinches and looks uncomfortable as she does every time I say something dry or belittling about our adopted home or the inhabitants of our social circle. Both she and mother are grateful for the opportunity my marriage affords us and do not want a hint of scandal and discord. For the most part, I pay my role well, but I will be a perfect wife and Milanese lady. I miss the dreamlike time of playing cards and watching the bonfires burn. 

"Will you extend an invitation for the painter to visit when she is free, Sophie?" I ask, barely keeping my voice from trembling. 

Sophie's eyes grow impossibly wide and her fingers careless stab the cross stitch frame that she is turning into a garden scene. I will never know our maid as intimately as Marianne we have grown close through the years, ever since we prevented her ruination in society. The thought of my request terrifies and unsettles her. The quiet of a home that revolves around caring for a sick man suits her temperament, even if she holds deep affection for Marriane. Sophie doesn't want to see me return to the despair and dark days just after my portrait was complete to my mother's satisfaction. 

"I will pass on the message," she whispers dutifully. 

**Spring**

Marrianne does not reply to my request for two weeks. 

I know this because I wait for the post with growing impatience each day, but nothing appears except more doctors suggestions for Stefano and household items. Mother becomes suspicious, but she does not offer comment or critique, even she cannot fault my diligent care for my husband and child. We live different lives now also though she lives in the small cottage at the back of the family lands. Mother does not have any other grandchildren, so she takes a keen interest in Marco becoming the perfect heir. It won't surprise me if she is already thinking of possible alliances with the local families. She desires an Italian dynasty rather than returning to France. Neither of us could stand returning to such remoteness of our previous home. 

"Marianne is in the hall requesting to see you." 

By unspoken agreement, Sophie and I do not speak of those few weeks when it was only the three of us in the house. She still bears the guilt of ending the pregnancy though she did not have a choice in the matter. Mother wouldn't hesitate to dismiss her for such an infraction. Sophie doesn't say a word when she catches me hiding that one book in the far corner of my drawers. She misses Marianne almost as fiercely as I do much for vastly different reasons. Sophie makes no effort to hide the excitement dancing in her eyes, and her French accent will linger for days when speaking to other members of the staff. 

"Send her in and leave us for the hour, Sophie. I am sure she will stay to greet you properly, as well." I instruct quietly 

I barely remember to breathe as I wait for the door to my sitting room to open. My heart is racing as Mariane steps into the room and my life with much sound or ceremony. The timing is perfect, the rest of the household is out celebrating a Milanese festival that I only attend every second year on the pretence that my husband cannot go so; therefore, I will not. Most people blame such eccentricities on my French nature, but even the most hostile Countesses keep their opinions to themselves if Stefano is a topic of conversation. 

"I did not expect you to come or even answer my letter after such a long time." I break the silence clumsily, but she doesn't seem willing to start. 

"I hoped to enter and leave the city without attracting attention from either you or Sophie, a way of guarding my heart against disappointment inevitable at this moment," she replies formally. 

Anger and weariness in her voice are new to me but so much about this woman remains the same. Everything from the lift of her dark eyebrows to her nervous habits. Marianne's clothes and light powders are more expensive and grand, no doubt to meet the expectations of wealthy patrons. Mother would approve of such efforts for a woman of her station even if the life path is strange. The different shades of blue contrast wonderfully with the darkness of her hair and the paleness of her skin. We watched each other was so many hours that I can honestly say I can still remember her every feature. Age is kind to her and can only enhance such beauty rather than diminish it. Her hands are perfectly clean and polished as they ball in front of her skirt. 

"I could not bear one more regret when it came to you; there were tiny details I was beginning to forget, like the exact scent of your skin or that sweet tobacco you like," I confess too nervous to stop the words. 

Mariane looks over her shoulder; her body stiffens with tension and concern. Even though she is an unusual woman and is taking over her father's business, she still needs to be careful about her reputation. Most of her earnings rely on conservative wealthy patrons who believe in keeping up appearances. There is a risk to her even turning up here without purpose. My words are reckless but I must speak truly if this is my only chance. 

"There is nobody in the household right now who speaks French, beside Sophie. We are safe to talk freely."

"With that in mind, why am I here? It was the height of cruelty for you to bring me here to your marital home for a glimpse of you in this life, that I can have no part in, we already embody the stanzas of the Greek epics there is no need for a version." She asks, trying to fight back the tears. 

"I want you for more than a glance, and with that in mind, I want to commission you Marianne, the renowned artist for a portrait, that will enable us to spend time together and be a great service to my family," I explain without taking my eyes off her. 

"Who am I to draw for you, Heloise?" Marianne asks in a bare whisper. 

"My dying husband so he can take his place in the gallery."

Marianne starts at me unblinkingly, but she does not turn to flee at the suggestion. 

I resolve at that moment to do everything in my power to convince Marriane to create something more than memories with me. 

**Summer**

The portrait was something of a pretext, but I should have greater faith in Marianne's skill and diligence. She takes to the task with all the care and expertise of any other commission complete with hours of sitting and studying. 

"My husband will die before Marco has any strong memories of the man his father is now. I want him to be proud of the name and face he will take one-day inherit." 

"There is no way to avoid his illness Heloise, not without altering things significantly. I can do this, particularly if he has a brother who could sit as a point of reference. You would not be the first or the last person to request the obscuring of reality with a paintbrush."

"No, I want to reflect his full life and all the ages, it needs to contain respect and dignity but no deceit. This work is to honour him and offer peace to his mother, who alternates between blaming Italian weather and herself." 

"Not you and your strange French ways?" Marianne asks with a smile.

"Not since I gave her a healthy and talented grandson to swoon over. There are plenty who make a connection for her." 

Strangely our days fall into a similar pattern from so many years ago. Marianne sits with Stefano as I read to him and accompany us on our daily walks around the garden. He cannot take pleasure in much on a mortal plain anymore, but he loves the intimate details of his ancestral home. Marianne is adept at the role of silent observer and does not comment when Stefano tires and returns to his wheelchair, his body shaking violently. 

"You have the makings of a good nun and caretaker. The Benedictines lost a great sister in you." Marianne observes quietly. 

"Perhaps but I would miss the sound of secular music, and my marriage serves in purpose by saving our family and freeing my mother. I could not keep my sister from her torments, but I can ease my husband's suffering and maintain his dignity. I am a far better caretaker than a wife, at least my caring for him is an honest duty with no lies." I say quietly. 

The final portrait captures Stefano sitting in his study his books and papers surrounding him with a faithful rendering of Mario at his side. The chair could either be a regular chair or one with wheels; he looks frail but not without presence or gravitas. He is wearing his favourite and best merchant clothing with his family jewellery. I recognise the quilt I knitted him as an anniversary present. Marco is holding, and book and Stefano's head tilts as he is listening to the story. The scene is a perfect replica of a typical family scene. 

"This is wonderful Marianne. My motives were selfish, but this is beyond expectation." 

**Autumn**

Marianne's services are in high demand in Milan, especially as several second and third sons come of age and there is speculation about title or two looking for the right daughter to fill it. I am willing to talk up her offerings, but my praise isn't necessary. The combination of her father's name and her skill means that she earns well. Her subjects range from matrons to mothers, daughters and sons. A few of the wealthiest people want to immortalise their pets. Marianne speaks with affection and authority about some of her most memorable moments, and it makes me laugh like little else does since Stefano became so ill. There is no mention of the flattery or inducement she gives them to pose or of the secret naked men to let her practice. 

I begin to mark my weeks by her visits and the long afternoons or evenings we spend alone or with Sophie. I am in constant competition with my servant and friend for her attention, but the card games we play are fun and lift the spirits. Marianne still cheats, but her presence is so delightful that my pride can deal with the insult. The weeks of changing seasons are idyllic, and there doesn't seem to be any significant restraints on our time together. Marianne has long days painting and meeting people, but she never begs off an invitation to the house. She even consents to play Vivaldi on our piano even though she cames to have genuine skill for music. 

"Do you think Sophie will marry the baker if he asks?" Marianne looks at me as she tapped out her pipe. 

"I think her heart still longs for the one who did not stand by her all those years ago, foolish as he never intended to marry anyone who wasn't wealthy. He is the greater fool for Sophie's heart, and decency is worth any fortune. Marriage is and always will be an economic proposition for most." I reply, trying not to think of my mother. 

"I will talk to her; she will lose a great deal if she continues to insist that the heart can only bloom once with a touch of love or that passion is a requirement to a decent life." Marianne looks sad and mournful. 

"I cannot begrudge her such longings for my heart is the same, and lights for only one person. Time does not lessen the longing, but my days are full, and there is music in them, which is some consolation." I star at her directly. 

Instead of answering Marianne reaches into the folds of her dress (without much care that it is not fashionable for women to have pockets) and pulls out miniature portrait, I instantly recognise. My youthful face stares back at me with fewer lines and marks but no less worry. Somehow Marianne manages to capture both hope and profound sadness. The paint looks new so she must retouch the image regularly. My eyes are no longer such a vibrant shade of green. 

"I carry this wherever the commissions take me as my father did with the image of my mother. Theirs was a love match, and perhaps that is where I get my strange ideas from, it serves as my lover's token but not one I can display. Will you sit for a new one?"

"My skin and eyes look better in the original." I absently touch the slight crows' feet that mother is forever pointing out.

"You couldn't be more beautiful, and my fingers itch to capture each difference." Marianne insists. 

**Winter**

"Why did you take such a risk with your portrait of motherhood?"

Mariane asks the question as we are sitting in the kitchen sharing wine and cheese. As always, her hands stained with different colours, and the familiarity makes me smile. So many things about our magical time together are still so fresh in my mind. Everything feels new and clean now that Marianne sets across from me, her hair longer and the frown lines are a little deeper. I can imagine her being a stern teacher to her girls and having high standards for their art. 

Technically there is no reason for her to return to this house. My mother in law and mother are both delighted with the portrait tribute to Stefano. Marianne receives several commissions from this piece alone. There are plenty of wealthy people with pox scars, limb deformities or simply the ravages of time being unkind. I have no gift for art and am profound bias, but Marianne has a talent for maintaining realism while concealing flaws. It's possible that her careful rendering of some of my asymmetric features was enough to persuade Stefano to marry me in the first place. Mother never hesitates to point out such misfortunes of nature, but even she couldn't fault."

"Remembering you wasn't enough for me anymore. I wanted a permanent reminder, even if it was hanging in a gallery." I try to keep the blush from my check. 

"Our minds are alike in that regard; there is a representation of Orpheus and Eurydice in the same display under my father's name. The unusual presentation is getting praise and critiques in equal measure, but I only painted the piece for one person, even if you never saw it."

The thought of her painting me in secret fills me with happiness and sadness in equal measure. I have no talent for keeping the flames of our time together alive even in writing, colour or even stitching. Mother makes all the arrangement for the original portrait and thus retains all the correspondence and address details. For many years I am not brave enough to search for them then my life becomes consumed by Stefano, Marco and the occasional orchestra performance. The small addition of '28' to the portrait was a whim and the extent of bravery. 

"Why do you not ask me if I am happy or my life in Milan as a Merchant's wife?" I ask quietly without meaning to voice the thoughts that torment me. 

"Wasn't that you request? That I make my on inference on your future life and happiness fulfilling your mother's expectations. Would you be honest in the face of such a question?"

"Any moments of consolation pales in comparison to the happiness we found together in the caves and crumbling house in Brittany, as I knew it would from the moment you kissed me," I whisper with more tenderness than bitterness. 

"I am glad that a healthy son and a house of music gave you some comfort when I could not." Marianne offers without looking up from her teacup. 

"Will you stay?" I whisper hoarsely. 

"I will stay for a while."

The promise isn't reassuring, but I have no right to demand anything more at the moment. Marianne reaches out and brushes our fingers together. We hold the touch for long moments, and I resist the urge to kiss her in the still air. Mother is in the other wing and could enter at any moment. The Countess is trying to encourage me to attend the ball season this year. 

***

"Remembering moments with you is not enough for me either."

Marianne kisses me in the daytime, and there is every possibility that Sophie knows what we are doing and does not care. It is as once the same and entirely different from our brief time years ago. We are both crying, and our hands tremble as we try and remember the shape and feel of each other. We are alone for the day, but that doesn't mean we can be entirely reckless. I pull Mariane towards the far corner of the extensive gardens, which is where I have my solitary walks each day. Everybody knows not to disturb me in these moments unless Stefano becomes distressed or unwell. Marco is with his tutors for the rest of the afternoon diligently studying his Latin and Greek. For now, we are alone, and I can indulge in every touch and sensation that haunts me throughout the years. The adult Marianne is every bit as beautiful as her girlhood counterpart. 

"I have pages of sketches with you, none as so modest, as that simple miniature in that dress. Each memory is just for me and detail every exquisite feature that the conservative marriage portrait will not convey. Your neck, the hollow of your throat and the curve of your ribs in naked slumber." Marianne whispers her breath, hitching on the final evocative words. 

"Page 28 is crumbling and fraying with age and my adoration. I fear to lose the traces like Orpheus does his Eurydice, that is half the reason for that painting in the gallery." I reply against her neck. 

"I am adept at destroying and desecrating the pages and margins of books. I'll draw you a whole library if that is your desire, Héloïse." 

"I am selfish to want both the memories and to have you at my side. Are there any Greek myths with such a compromise." I ask without much hope. 

The gardens are not the place for us to continue such intimacies, Marco or Sophie could come looking for us at any time. Strangely I do not have to fight the desire to drag Mariane to the nearest bed or yielding furniture. Sharing moments with her fills with me with the same floaty feeling as those herbs from the festival night. By mutual understanding, we disentangle from each other and continue walking at an almost respectable distance. Even the most nieve in the household wouldn't mistake the smiles and blushes that pass between us. My cheeks feel a little sore from the unfamiliar sensation, and I almost wish that Marriane would paint me know if that wouldn't require her to move too far away from my side. Her mannerism is the same as she searches for a safe conversation topic. Marianne fiddles with a necklace at her throat that I hope is not the token of a lover. 

"I must return home soon. There are matters of business that need my attention now that father's eyesight and health are failing. I am the primary painter in demand, with a small school to oversee next summer. There are even one or two who wish to apply to be apprentices. My life is not as full of freedom and choices as you imagined." Marianne confesses as we reach the rosebeds. 

"If you have a choice, would you stay with me? Can I ask you to resist such expectations?" I am aware that tears are stinging my eyes. 

"Always." 

We walk in silence for a while, and Marianne moves close enough that our hands brush every few steps. Her hands a clean of any paints today but the calluses from the brushes still feel the same. So many emotions are on Marianne's face that even my close study cannot register them. She pulls us to a halt before I can summon any response or desperate plea, my throat is too tight to form words in either of the languages I speak fluently. 

"We can be Hades and Persphone, parting for part of the year to tend to other duties but with the hope of the reunion to sustain them. I could carry the burdens of my heart lightly if I have the promise of a season in Milan to sustain hope." Marianne's eyes are dark and full of earnestness. 

My heart swells as the idea settles in my mind and begins to take shape. Nothing would be perfect, and we would need to be careful with Mother, Marco and the household staff, but the risk as possible. Plenty of the merchants and traders have secrets vices and comforts; their wives are no different. Loving Marianne is far tamer than the rumoured habits of some of my husband's contemporaries; even my mother may have a new life back in her home town and away from the ghost of my sister and the sea. 

"There are plenty of nobles and ambitious young ladies for you to paint, at least five nieces and cousins in Stefano's family alone." 

"I would return here even if you were my only commission for the rest of my life." Marianne insists fiercely. 

"Return to me in some way that is all that matters." 

"I promise."

There are no witnesses or ceremony for this vow, and it will not have a place in the record books of either Italy or France, but it means everything to me. 


End file.
